


Streamline

by pennameisblank



Series: Fairytale Gone Bad [1]
Category: Den lille Havfrue | The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid, F/M, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Work In Progress, not-really-romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennameisblank/pseuds/pennameisblank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Marvolo Riddle, the prince of merman kingdom, ventures above the waves upon his fifteenth birthday. The world of the humans soon catches his unending fascination, and the longer he stayed, the harder it is to turn back.... Tom should've listened to his mother; curiosity killed the cat, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Streamline

Fandom: Harry Potter, Little Mermaid AU

Pairings: Harry Potter/ Tom Riddle Jr., platonic like a mountain range. Honestly, I can’t write romance to save my life.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended; this fictional work is written for entertainment purposes only.

WARNING: If you are one of those people who grew up on Disney princesses, I’m warning you. I do not use Disney’s desensitized version of Hans Christian Andersen and Grimm Brothers’ tragically bloody CHILDREN bedtime stories as the jumping point in this fic, or my possible future fics. Look the original version up, if you did not know how the original Little Mermaid story goes, because quite a few points are drastically different in Disney and Andersen’s versions—which will also be different in this fic, naturally.

Please kindly inform any mistakes in this chapter. I have very little patience for proofreading besides the obligatory first.

 

* * *

 

**Streamline Chapter 1: Prologue**

 

_Streamline: Contour economically or efficiently_

 

Thomas Marvolo.

Prince Marvolo.

Little brother Tommy… he lips pulled back viciously into a grimace at the thought, safe in the knowledge that his choice of plant will mask his visage, behind the tree’s gently swaying tresses of red foliage, the waxy luster reflecting the sunlight that filtered in through the depths.

Sometimes his sisters can be so very thick.

He rested against the smooth, willowy trunk of his tree—a gentle tree with sorrowful, demure air, as if its branches were bent downwards with a burden unknown to all creatures underwater, its twigs a warm black-brown, so fragile like the fingers of a child, so tangled with each other, with leaves cascading gently down their length. The miniscule leaves prickled the skin of his neck, and he vaguely felt the telltale scratch as his delicate complexion was marred with thin red streaks, which quickly dissolves into the water around him, only the faintest whiff of blood remaining.

A dichotomy. His lonely, single tree was a dichotomy, and Tom wouldn’t have it any other way. He refused to grow feeble, mortal flowers in his garden, as his sisters did; his tree was eternal. A deceptive gentleness, with razor-sharp edges, combined with apparent deformity that belied its simple persistence to live, to thrive under Tom’s disagreeable nurturing capabilities. Tom’s tree was an ancient minnow-trapping carnivorous devil snarl.

He wouldn’t choose some flowers that needed to be coddled, to be tended with utmost care to bloom; it was against his nature to care for something as menial and trivial as simple flowers. No, his garden was a haven for the strong-willed, a perfect miniature environment of the open seas where the strong reigns supreme.

He held out his left hand, allowing a brightly striped, rainbow-colored coral reef butterfly to brush against his fingertips.

A split moment later, a shimmering green shape lunged and a sickening crunch was heard.

“Nagini,” Tom murmured, fingers coolly splayed against the jaw of the serpent. He felt along the pale underbelly of the sea snake, tickling the thinner, sheer scales. The snake slid along his arm with serpentine grace, mass of muscle swiftly flexing under its shimmering scales.

_“Good morning, fish-man-child,”_ the snake crooned, continuing to slither its way around Tom’s neck.

_“Good morning to you, too, Nagini,”_ Tom replied, absently stroking the cool scales against the back of his neck. _“Did you hunt this morning?”_

_“Oh, yeeess,”_ the great snake hissed sibilantly. _“Strangest things happen across myself in the morning, little fish-man-child,”_ its forked tongue darted out, brushing against Tom’s jaw with feather light caress.

_“What strange things?”_

_“Remains of men of the land above the waves, little fish-man-child,”_ the snake imparted its wisdom before curling itself into the hollow of Tom’s shallow collarbone. _“Now be quiet and let me get some rest.”_

_“Wait a minute, Nagini—did you say that they overlooked such a thing?”_

Nagini let out an amused hiss. _“Silly fish-man-child,”_ the serpent crooned, scales sliding in search for warmth in Tom’s pale skin. _“Humans lose their vessels every so often. Soon they will realize it’s not coming, little humans they are, and mourn for it.”_

_“What do they do, Nagini? And why have I never seen them?”_

Nagini hissed in annoyance. _“Little fish-man-child, you are too small to venture above the waves, unlike me._ I _have seen the great fire they set upon our ocean, child. You must see it—there is nothing quite like it here, underwater.”_

Tom scratched the side of Nagini’s belly, moving the surprisingly heavy weight so that it rested comfortably around his collarbone. _“A fire? What is a fire?”_

_“A great light they make with drifted woods, child. Light, and heat, and the crackle of our ocean.”_

_“I should like to watch this fire,”_ Tom stated, his mind alight with imaginations. _“What do they do, Nagini? Do they play with fire, like you and me play among the flowers?”_

_“I am not human, child,”_ Nagini reprimanded softly, tongue flicking Tom’s nose. _“I only see that they set it off above the waves, so that its smoke rose high to the sky, and they sing and dance for their fallen. And_ you _play in the flower beds, Tom, whilst_ I _simply wait for my next meal to deliver itself.”_

Tom sighed, lulled by the easy companionship and conversation. His eyelids felt heavy, but in front of his eyes, was moving pictures of sunken ships, pieces of wood, tar, tangles of heavy rope, and human men and women screaming and flailing their little limbs to escape the dark, cold waters. And there were his sisters’ voices, and his gentle, sick mother, and his ignorant, oblivious father’s, and they all sung to the fallen sailors, melodies haunting the depths, inviting their brethren, and even the sharks pause to listen to the choir. And then there was him, as he weaved through the steadily sinking ruins of a ship, the tune he was singing just a bit less haunting, and a bit more cheerful. After all, he had never seen the whole process of sinking, drowning, as if a great fish that has lost its breath, drawn underwater so, very slowly, to never see the sun until finally it gave up with a great sigh. And then wood planks splintered, the hull split in two, and Tom imagined seeing the figurehead—a mermaid, ironically—gave its last gleam known to creatures as the heavy silver-lined dark wood plunged into the darkness of the abyss.

Overall, it was a very fascinating sight to imagine… the struggle of the wooden construction to stay afloat, the fierce determination of land-humans, with their four little limbs wildly paddling them upwards. They seemed so strange underwater, something alien that was introduced into the ethereal underwater life by an almost casual wave that rolled forward and sent the ship crashing into the reef. In the end, he imagined their heavy, golden jewelries—in accordance to the stories his mother had once told him, however few they were—were like deadweight pulling their little necks underwater, with their little precious stones gleaming mockingly, before the water seeped into their thick cloaks and further strangled them. It was a glorious sight.

A hundred miles from Tom’s garden, a boy wept for his lost mother, and a man began his descent to the path of despair.

* * *

 

A.N. : I made Tom the “mermaid princess” *snickers* with OC sisters, and Nagini an old sea snake that apparently hunt as far as the coastal waters. This is just a prologue, though, so I’m hoping the next chapter will be considerably longer. I just felt that it was a good place to stop.


	2. Pitter Patter

_Retrograde: Of amnesia; affecting time immediately preceding trauma. Going from better to worse._

* * *

 

“The Queen?!”

Harry James Potter fell to his knees in shock, meticulously combed jet black hair falling to his eyes, obscuring the messenger’s view of the crown prince’s face safe the slightly parted lips and the pale, ashen skin.

“… The preparations for a search party have been issued, Your Majesty,” the messenger, a sandy-haired young lad, continued nonetheless, determined to deliver all the information before the royal family grieved properly. It’s his job on the line, after all, though he found it hard to continue when he glanced at the grief-stricken face of the king.

There was no other sound in the audience chamber.

“… You may go now,” Harry dismissed him weakly, clutching his dark green woolen cloak to his chest. The messenger got up gratefully and bowed in deference before scampering away.

His mother… he whimpered as pain lanced through his strangely hollow chest, the ache throbbing madly like a limb cut off. He realized with a strange sense of detachment that his vision blurred, and something like the pitter-patter of the rain echoed in the room.

The silence was suffocating, Harry could have sworn he hyperventilated right there and then. It was when he braved a look at his father’s face, blurred with something he realized must be tears, that he felt his duty was clearer than ever—he can’t fall to the same pit his father jumped into. The search hasn’t even been commenced.

He was the crown prince, and he would uphold his duty, and to do that, first of all he needed to find his lost mother.

“Father,” he started, “I wish to accompany the search team.”

Instantly, James Charlus Potter awoke from his stupor. “No you’re not.” He snapped, grief and sorrow morphing into anger and burning fury. “You’re not going anywhere near the docks, you hear me, young man?”

Harry felt, more than saw, his father’s unhinged temper resting at a precarious balance with the death… or possible death, he reminded himself halfheartedly, after all they still haven’t found any proof yet. She… she must’ve held on to a piece of drift wood. There’s no way his mother could die _this_ easily… it doesn’t make sense.

She was a spirited woman, with easy, gentle smiles, compassionate soul, and with a fiery beauty to complete it. Harry shared her heart-shaped face, and small nose, and her small stature, but most of all her green, green eyes, and as his father stared him down to a submission he didn’t feel, he knew his father felt it too—saw, after all those years, the stark resemblance between his son and his potentially lost wife.

Abruptly, James averted his eyes, and a pang went in Harry’s chest.

“Excuse me, Father,” he murmured, his arms clutched fiercely around himself.

When James didn’t reply, Harry felt a strange sense of doom loomed over them, straining the atmosphere to unbearable pressure. Suddenly his father seemed so far away; the lost look in his usually kind, hazel eyes, the hunched back, the pallid pallor unbefitting his father’s tan complexion… Harry could almost see his father crawled up into himself. It was a simple defense mechanism for coping with grief… ‘ _Except that there’s nothing to grief for. There’s still no proof, after all’_ , Harry reminded himself.

Somehow, the words sounded hollow even to his own mind.

 

“Your Excellency,” the head of the servants greeted, the aged man’s voice vacant of its usual exuberance.

James gave a tiny nod with his head, and the old man stepped forward with two redheaded boys carrying small tray in their hands. The two took a glance at the king and promptly left the tea and assortment of condiments and sweet buns on the ornate glass table.

James watched detachedly as Dobby measured his cup of tea with practiced ease, spooning a cube of sugar and added a whip of milk. He served it with honeyed bread in small crisp loaves, the aroma of freshly baked flour and milk and tea permeating the room.

Usually the king would thank him for his dedicated service to the palace, but King James stared forward, unseeing, eyes blank and unfeeling.

Dobby however had too much sense of duty, and so he pulled the two boys, Fred and George, by the scruff of their necks into an awkward bow before hastily excusing themselves to the exit.

The two redheads had little decorum outside of the room.

“What happened—“

“—to the king? He looked—“

“—like someone just—“

“—died.”

Dobby couldn’t even muster a smile for the boys.

* * *

 

“Mother, I want to see the ruins of the ship that drowned the other day,” Tom curled his fingers around his mother’s thin wrist lightly.

“And who told you of this ship, sweetheart?” Merope’s pale, thin complexion stretched painfully with the smile she gave her only son.

Tom hesitated. His sisters didn’t care much for his serpent companion, but his father didn’t like it that he spent more time with a _snake_ than his people… how would his mother react?

“A friend of mine,” he said finally. Merope seemed to sense that there was more to this ‘friend’ than Tom had said, but didn’t press it, and for that Tom’s fondness of his mother grew just a teeny bit. “… She was swimming when the ship sank.”

“Oh, a female?” Merope asked, amusement lighting her usually dim, blank slate eyes.

Tom averted his eyes uncomfortably. “Well, yes, and she said humans will light a great fire on the sea for the ship. I want to see it.”

Merope grew somber, not saying anything as her son pulled her by her wrist to the king’s chamber. If Tom noticed something off with his mother, he didn’t question it, and once again Merope appreciated her son’s sense of discretion, if out of his social ineptitude. He was essentially avoiding making her uncomfortable with unnecessary questions, and it endeared him to her more than her daughters’ merrymaking.

“Let me talk to your father, then,” Merope said finally, with a thin smile. “Who knows, you’re his heir—he’s bound to show you some lenience to make your own choices.”

“What’s so bad with seeing something of humans’ world?” Tom wondered out loud, pausing in front of great crystalline green doors that led to the king’s throne room.

Merope stopped beside him, the corners of her eyes taut and her jaw clenched painfully. “… Some say it will entice you, like we can enchant them,” Merope whispered, pupils dilated, making her pale skin all the more noticeable. “That it will ensnare your mind; you will turn back on your own kind to pursue something else. Something _nonexistent_ with humans who walked the dry lands.”

She blinked, and her eyes lost their previous misty, dazed look. “Let’s hope for best,” she murmured, because that’s what she does best; hoping that someday a divine hand will intercept and stir the merrily monotonous, repetitive life of the merfolk. She hoped, Tom knew, and she prayed to whatever deity who watched over them, and ground offerings to dust in the streams—berries, salty weeds, rainbow scales, even drops of newborn babe’s blue blood, when she gave birth to each of her children.

They entered to see the king dancing with his elder daughter, a girl five years Tom’s senior, with the usual entourage clapping and swinging and swaying merrily to the faint, relaxed music.

Abruptly, the music stopped, and the king caught his daughter mid-swing the split second it was stopped with precise grace and strength.

“Merope, my wife,” he murmured, dark eyes half-lidded. His lips twitched, for a moment, but Tom caught it nonetheless and his despise—no, his _disgust_ , his _revulsion_ , for the man who sired him climbed. The king’s expression was blank, unfeeling, pale lips a straight, distant line and dark lashes fluttering against perfectly shaped cheekbone as he weighed the situation, and once more Tom hated the fact that he looked like his father remade with his mother’s slate eyes. “What seems to be the matter? Are you well enough to leave bed?” The king paused. “… Would you like to accompany me dance?”

Tom’s eldest sister nodded brightly, dark brown hair wafting like a mass of died weed around her head, forming an ugly halo. “Come hither, Mother,” she called, voice sweet and compelling and so utterly _shallow_ , Tom aborted his gag reflex. Why can’t they be a bit more _aware_ , more sensitive of their surrounding? “Come hither and dance with me like you did when I was but a hatchling.”

Tom’s eyes swerved back to his mother, who stood with quiet dignity that he thought skipped past his sisters right to him, slate eyes thoughtful.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait, Marjorine,” Merope’s voice was a mere breath under her lips, her eyes riveted on the contemplating look the king wore. “Tom and I are going to see the sunken ship.”

Abruptly, all occupants of the hall stilled.

“You are not yet fifteen,” the king said softly, reluctance filling in blank, dark eyes. Tom bowed subserviently if only to placate his father. “But I will not go above the waves—the ship, as Mother had said, is _sunk_ ,” Tom delicately replied.

This seemed to appease the majority of his father’s entourage, and with it, he knew he had won his father’s permission—reluctant though it may be.

“Excellent,” Merope cut in, satisfaction glimmering in her eyes for once instead of stark boredom and perpetual pain, _weakness_. “We shall be on our way. Come, dear,” Merope hushed Tom gently back to the entrance, her curly dark hair obscuring a portion of her face. Tom let himself be ushered out of the room, vindictive glee still erupting in his chest, and he drowns momentarily in the euphoria.

Once they were safely out of an earshot, Merope gripped Tom’s wrist tightly.

“Promise me, Son,” she whispered. Tom felt chills went down his spine, and immediately pushed the sensation out of his mind. This is his mother in front of him; no matter if she just spoke like one of those outcast Oracles, or Sea Witches.

“Anything, Mother,” Tom replied easily.

“You will not visit the ship without my guidance,” Merope said softly. “And not to venture where you should not.”

Restrains. Binds. _Crippling_ him.

“I can’t promise you the last,” Tom allowed a small compromise. “But I will ask your… guidance… whenever I feel like visiting the ship.”

Merope’s grip tightened until Tom was sure it would leave pale, crescent marks around his wrist.

“The allure of human world is strong,” Merope whispered. “Promise me.”

Tom looked back steadily at his mother’s wide, slate eyes, feeling more than seeing Merope’s paralyzing anxiousness, overwhelming fear, and something else entirely he can’t comprehend.

“Alright, then,” he said finally. “I won’t go anywhere.”

Immediately, all tension left Merope’s body and her grip slackened. Tom discreetly flexed his wrist, relieving the stiffness. Merope’s blunt nails had dug their mark on his skin, but Tom didn’t mind. Not much anyway. The trail of crescent moon will disappear shortly, after all.

Mother and son swam in a vague beeline towards the site of the wreckage; Merope’s hand was firm on Tom’s wrist, pulling her son along as they weaved through throngs of ocean life.

“Mother?” Tom asked, softly, because the world was tranquil around them, and he was reluctant to disturb, to cause yet another calamity. The human ship was intruding enough. “How do you know where the wreckage is?”

Merope was silent.

 

* * *

 

 

A.N.2: Thank you for reading, etc. haha. Anyway, after this chapter is a timeskip! Don’t forget to review!


	3. A Prelude to Insanity

_Cri de Coeur: An impassioned outcry, appeal, protest, or entreaty_

Harry had never felt this miserable. The past two years had been miserable; _his_ past two years, _their_ past two years; Harry and his father’s.

He plucked another shaft of smooth, black wooden arrow and nocked it swiftly with practiced ease. His bowstring thrummed as he released the arrow, and he watched dispassionately as it embedded itself in the center of the range.

“Nice shot,” his companion commented without any inflection.

Harry glanced sideways and saw Draco’s grey eyes alight with amusement. He gave a halfhearted shrug and unslung his bow, the smooth, familiar curve a comforting weight in his hands.

“I’m not in the mood for this, Draco,” he muttered, walking forward to retrieve the arrows he had used. He pulled them from the soft wood with excessive strength, chipping the plank away with vigor. He returned the practice arrows to the slab of stone in the back of the training range, where they kept blunt practice swords, dulled rapiers, unsharpened spearheads, knives, maces, and secondhand axes. He picked a few knives and experimentally threw them to the wall.

They slipped through the hairline cracks between the whitewashed stones all the way to the hilt.

Draco whistled in appreciation.

“Impeccable accuracy as always, my Prince,” he drawled.

“Why don’t you go find Blaise,” Harry instructed, just wishing that Draco would scamper away. He couldn’t even muster enough excitement for the gala in honor of his upcoming birthday, his twelfth birthday to be exact, when it was so close to _that_ day. And of course, Draco Malfoy, being the obnoxious prat he is, insisted on accompanying him—in other words, clinging like a puppy to him—through his daily routine.

The circumstances in _that_ accident, _that_ singularly unfortunate naval fortuity, were never known. And with each passing day, even after two years, they still haven’t recovered. Oh, their kingdom prospers like never before—King James was hailed as the benevolent ruler, much more than his predecessors, and the prince, Prince Harry, was publicly adored. Their trade flourished, their people enjoyed constant peace and tranquility, crime rates were near nil, and it was, overall, like a haven above land.

However, his father the king was never quite the same. If it were not for his loyal advisors, pledging to indulge the whims of the aristocracy and common people alike to associate themselves with their future sovereign, he’d likely abandon all plans of the gala, and all celebrations within a month of _that_ day, Harry’s birthday or not.

A gala on the royal battleship.

Granted, it will only set sail about five miles or so, enough to get the nighttime coast scenery—the port town was, according to the people, magnificent in the dark, alight with night life—but not far enough to be in any actually nonexistent danger. Besides, they will be on _the_ royal battleship. Still, his father was consistently trying to hinder the actual planning, and Harry feared the gala would be less than the people have hoped for, if it continued.

“Go look for Blaise, Draco,” Harry repeated when the heels of Draco’s boots made sharp tack-tack-tack sound following his steps. “I will be in The Library.”

He knew Draco could and would sense the capitals on the term, and would comply immediately. Meanwhile, he abandoned the training grounds and set forth towards his library. It was his private library where he stocked books and parchments of subjects of his interest.

Currently, they held tomes of naval navigation, shipbuilding, and great maps of the ocean.

His father would be incensed.

Still, it has been a year since he had procured the hidden room for himself, and his father had not heard a whiff of it. The only ones who knew about it were his noblemen playmates, Draco and Blaise, and the youngest son of the Weasley family who served as his retainer, Ronald. They were also the ones who helped Harry procure the books his father had cleaned out of the palace library, books that will otherwise never be in his reach if his father had any say in that.

He walked with practiced grace befitting one of his statuses, for once, because the palace was swarming with foreign visitors who will also be attending his gala. Not all of them were nobilities, but the palace simply had many rooms for guests, when the inns were already packed with visitors from other cities.

It was at times like these that Harry appreciated the ostensibly harmless appearance of the palace. It looked magnificent, of course, but it has always been that way since the beginning of time, and like always time brought familiarity if nothing else. Since it was first built by Harry’s ancestors, there were added pavilions forming a complex around the palace, modifications on the outer wall, and many small renovations that, inevitably, created a maze behind its walls.

Personally, Harry thought all his father’s archers could fit in the mazes, there were so many. And their enemies won’t even know what hit them… if they have enemies, that is. Nowadays they have peace treaties with kingdoms of neighboring seas—a pact involving agreements about fishing regulations, ship recognitions, signals, and whatnot that Harry once wouldn’t have taken seriously.

He chuckled bitterly when he thought of his life before _that_ accident. His life used to consist of horse riding lessons, archery practices (a somewhat uncommon choice, but he was, once again, too small to even try lifting one of their knights’ heavy broadswords), etiquette lessons, ballroom dancing, history… and he had thought them all boring.

If only he had known, back then, how much he’d come to appreciate the simplicity of his former life when it had passed by.

Presently, Harry was sidling along an inconspicuously empty wall, feeling along the stones until he pushed one of them and in it went… together with a portion of the wall. He slipped inside and quickly pushed the movable wall back, and it moved silently, solidly, and once again hidden with a satisfying thump.

He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of leather bookbinding, old parchment, and ink that permeated the room.

It was a room squeezed between the eastern pavilion’s royal bedchambers, where he moved to last year, and the main building’s kitchen, with the only somewhat public entrance hidden in a rarely used passage. The passage winded about the eastern pavilion, some sort of walkway access for the time when servants, apparently, swarmed the palace—in other words, it was a servant’s hall…, which is why none of the nobilities used the passage. There were ventilations that were linked to his rooms (one of the reasons why he chose the suite) above his tall bookcases, and the fireplace in the room was connected with the fireplace in his sitting room.

He sat in a recliner he’d moved from his own sitting room through the hearth (“You must’ve mistaken, Father, there was only a settee in my sitting room”) before letting his eyes scan the familiarly comforting room.

It was shaped in half circle—the first reason why he had found it, when his rooms were depressingly rectangular inside a geometrically challenged pavilion—with high ceilings and marble flooring, which led to another assumption—it was originally a room of his past ancestors, likely a hideout of some sort—which led to Harry imagining what things they used to have to hide in the past.

Ugly, ugly things.

Meanwhile, he had other things to plan to… like the pieces of wood and a bunch of calla lilies he’s hoping to smuggle on board. His father won’t even be present, and he had a few friends among both nobilities and servants that he could assure their silence. Besides, all of them are rather reluctant to deny him from doing what he wanted, since his mother died, and his father could hardly blame him from giving his mother, _sleeping with the fishes_ as the fishermen would say, a small tribute.

He heard, rather than saw, the wall across his seat collapsed backwards, admitting Draco and Blaise into the room.

“I hope you’re not planning anything nefarious,” Blaise cautioned warily.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Whatever do you mean by that, Blaise, my good friend?”

“Last time the king’s advisors forced him to hold a celebration this close to _that_ date, you wrecked the dinner.”

Harry sighed. “Unfortunately, Blaise, I’m well aware that this is my twelfth birthday… my official first gathering in my capacity as the prince. I can hardly do that, can I?”

“Doesn’t mean it will stop you,” Draco replied, crossing the room to sit on a settee Harry pilfered with the help of Ron (because Draco refused to sweat, and Blaise was simply too… unapproachable to work alongside _servants_ ) from an unused room.

“I am not,” Harry stated. “I do hope you will help me bring a few pieces of wood on board, though. And a bouquet of calla lilies.”

“Ah.” Blaise hid his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Nagini, where have you been?”_

Tom’s fingers curled around the great serpent’s triangular maw, scratching and feeling along the cool scales.

_“I visited the port-town, fish-man-child,”_ the snake hissed back with a pleased mixture of hum and hiss when Tom’s nails scraped a particularly pleasant spot. _“There is this great big ship moored on the docks, and the town smelled of festivities.”_

_“Ah.”_

Since his first visit to the “land above the waves”, as Nagini called it, Tom had grown a bit fascinated by the whole concept of living on land—understandably, because his race lived their entire life settled underwater. What little the merfolk knew was simply not enough to quench Tom’s thirst for knowledge of the wondrous dry world, and he’d taken to visiting a hidden crook at a beach, about a hundred miles away from the merfolk palace, to simply watch and observe every little thing he could see.

_“You might want to come up tomorrow, child,”_ Nagini suggested. _“Those two-legged humans were talking about a ball of some sort.”_

Tom was very, very well acquainted with balls, and sincerely hoped that he wasn’t. It’s not that he’s a bad dancer—he’s one of the best dancer there is. It is a fact that merfolk had little else to do than preen and dance and sing, with occasional eating once in a while, and he’d grown… tired… of the whole dancing thing. Since they had precious little else to do, his father the king holds balls as often as disconcertingly possible. In all his seventeen years, he has had more balls than he bothered to count.

It was then that a thought struck him.

_“How do humans dance, Nagini?”_

_“… You’ll just have to come and see, child,”_ Nagini advised, before blinking sleepily and giving Tom’s palm one last lazy flick of branched tongue.

“Lazy old snake,” Tom murmured, his tone perhaps just a bit fond.

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you mean you want me to remove your guards?” James barely held on to his famous temper.

“Exactly as I said it, Father,” Harry stubbornly repeated, his tone dangerously bordering on disrespect.

“If you were not my son, I’ll have you in whipped for that,” James glowered darkly.

“We have no enemies, Father,” Harry insisted, teeth clenching painfully into his jaw when a sneer marred James’ handsome features.

“You’ll never know, my son,” James replied patronizingly. Harry felt his control snap bit by bit.

“With all due respect, Father,” he drawled, “even if, somehow, there are assassins out for my blood on board, killing me this early has little relatively lasting damage to the kingdom other than momentary chaos—“

“So you say that I should abandon you to the sharks?!”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry gritted his teeth. _Temper. Temper. Temper._ His father was seriously not making this any easier. If he had guards tailing him like little puppies, he won’t be able to sneak down to the boats to light the offering pyre. “This is my first official gala, Father. It would reflect badly if we are so afraid to show trust this early after pacts of peace.”

James raised a condescending eyebrow. “Oh, someone has been studying politics,” the king drawled.

“Just as you wished for me,” Harry replied flippantly, watching with barely disguised satisfaction as his father seethed silently.

“Don’t you understand that I’m already putting you at so much risk at sea—“

“There’s nothing wrong with the sea!” Harry snapped. James was so flabbergasted—Harry never talked back to him _this_ harshly—that his lips parted, no words spoken. “About time you realize that it was just another accident, Father! You moved to the west wing away from the sea! You removed all books on navigation and all ship maps from the palace! You even dismissed my arts teacher because she once _drew_ a ship! What else do you hope to do, chain me to my bedposts?!”

Harry’s breath came out ragged, his chest heaving, and when all his pent-up aggression has been unleashed, he shuffled backwards away from the man in front of him—his father, his father the king, the king who was forever trapped in his fears.

“You can’t keep me away from the sea forever, Father,” Harry said, his eyes meeting his father’s hazel ones with steely resolve before he looked away to the tall, arched window, seeing none of the beautiful gilded pictures formed out of the stained glass.

When James said nothing, Harry excused himself out of the room, feeling more depressed than he had felt when he awoke with the realization that it was, once again, a birthday without his mother. He retreated into his chambers in the east wing, to his bedroom that faced the sea, and watched the gulls float over gently lapping waves.

_‘How simple their existence are,’_ Harry’s blank mind mused to entertain him, as he leaned into cold, hard bedpost, fingers fiddling with its thick, dark emerald green silken curtains. _‘Eat. Sleep. Lay eggs. Just like the fishes…’_

_‘I wonder how it feels to be a fish….’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the one paragraph above that consists of one long sentence? It was underlined in green in my Ms. Word, haha, with a note “long sentence (consider revising)” but I couldn’t find any place to full stop the sentence, so there you go. I hope it’s not confusing.  
> By the way, a teacher of mine once taught me that the difference between “shore” and “beach” is the perspective; someone on a ship will say “shore” but someone on land will say “beach”. Do you all who speak English as native language do that? My thesaurus suggests, “Shore” is “the land along the edge of a body of water” while “beach” is “an area of sand sloping down to the water of sea or lake”which means body of water. I don’t get it.  
> Another thing is when I type “fishermen” Ms. Word suggested “anglers”. Is that because Microsoft is American, or is it a faulty spell check, because “fisherman” is someone whose occupation is catching fish, “angler” is someone who catches fish using hook and line, which are two different things.  
> I digress. This chapter is approximately 2300 words long without author notes.


	4. Romance Dawn

_Omnibus: Providing for many things at once_

* * *

 

Blaise Zabini was not famous among the ranks of aristocracy surrounding the royal family. He was quiet, and he was polite—but never shy. He partook in polite political conversations befitting one of his status and background, his words always neutral and not passionate, and he had a quiet air of dignity around him that made people either gravitate towards him or ignore him altogether. Sometimes, Blaise was just there… but like all true politicians, he knew when to pick his battles and which battles to pick. War is not won by brute force, after all.

The battle about his prince's escapade plans is the one battle he knew better than to pick from the start, for example.

Unlike Draco, who had once tried to "set Prince Harry straight", he'd rather help the plan so that it will turn out as fail proof as humanly possible. And within his self-conscious mind that he never let out, he knew that he could better aid Prince Harry than Draco, if for the simple fact that Draco was… childish. The boy was a whiny, spoiled little git and so very vain outside the political circle and he seemed to experience none of the aging that his body went through.

Right now, the blond boy was throwing a temper tantrum, stomping back and forth, to and fro in front of the fireplace in Harry's sitting room, while on the other side of the fireplace the prince was likely plotting escape routes and backup plans.

"I can't believe him!" Draco exclaimed dramatically. "He won't know a head wind if it hits him in the face, how will he steer the boat?"

"I believe that's why he asked for our help," Blaise answered dryly. "Your father is, after all, the Fleet Admiral."

"Gee, I feel your concern," Draco sneered. "I don't think I want in."

"You think he was giving you a choice?" Blaise said incredulously. "Be reasonable, Draco. He'll go whether you help him or not, and since he's going anyway you might as well make it safer for him."

Draco huffed in annoyance. "How could you be so calm? Anything could happen, even if he were only to row a quarter sea miles away. It's open seas out there, Blaise!"

"Don't let him catch you talking like that," Blaise cautioned warily. "He'll immediately place you in the same light he did the king—it was not favorable, if you like your exclusive pass to the library."

"He is not as shallow as you made him to be," Harry's voice called from behind the fireplace. "You know you'll help me anyway, Draco. Why not start admitting it to yourself? It's healthier this way."

Draco swiveled on his spot, barely managing to snap his jaw shut after dropping said jaw rather obscenely.

"You know it's not true!" Draco bleated plaintively.

Harry shook his head and sat himself on his favorite settee. "Come sit here, Draco. How is Aunt Narcissa doing?"

Draco cast an unbelieving look at the prince. "… I can't believe you."

"Can't believe what?" Harry asked absently, twisting his body to reach the bookcase lining his walls. "I wish to make sure I have… supporters… before going, as my father phrased it, to the sharks." His fingers counted the book spine lovingly, flitting over the titles embossed in silver and gold, over smooth tanned leather. He knew the books he kept in his room were only the ones that passed his father's obsessive scrutiny, but still there are a few that were quite valuable. Bibliophile? No, he just has a healthy relationship with his books. Something that can't be said with his father.

"More like your mood swings," Blaise muttered under his breath, and Draco settled himself beside Harry, leaning on the armrest to get a perfect view of the prince's neatly oiled jet-black head of hair.

"I don't see the relevance," Harry absently noted, hiking his left leg on the coffee table in an obscenely haughty manner. "By the way, I still don't know how Aunt Narcissa is doing."

"Mother is fine, Cousin," Draco drawled, grey eyes like ashes of an ember. "As you would know, if you're really preparing for the gala… after all, she has already sent her confirmation weeks ago."

Harry grimaced, spots of color high on his cheeks, and then peeked at his pocket watch, grimacing again when he caught sight of the Potter coat of arms emblazoned on the case. "Procrastination never sounds more appealing… but I suppose it can't be helped," Harry sighed. "At least I don't have servants nagging me around. What are you two wearing?"

"Not the royal ensemble," Draco answered quickly. "That thing is monstrously hideous, and absolutely uncomfortable, and so out of fashion."

"Draco," Harry said, grinning amusedly at the little blonde, "I was not aware you know of my royal ensemble-it's my new set for this, after all. Or, rather, that you have one."

Blaise snickered.

"It's my job to make sure you don't embarrass yourself with your horrid fashion taste, My Cousin Prince," Draco drawled, staring pointedly at Harry's old dark red tunic. "Red is so out of season."

"Then I'll be sure to mention you as my fashion advisor to my father," Harry and Blaise erupted into cackles at Draco's dismayed looks.

"Whatever," the ice-blond aristocrat huffed. "Stop fooling around. You only have a couple of hours left before you must be present at the battleship. Wash yourself and get changed, for Antioch's sake! You rank sweat and blood."

"The blades were dull," Harry said, but got up nonetheless. He stretched his arms upwards and heaved a great sigh. "I swear, one more ball and I'm going to denounce myself."

Neither Draco, for all his love of political plays, nor Blaise, with his quiet cunning, knew what to say to this.

"I'll help you get your firewood and lilies aboard," Draco offered. The somber smile he gave the blonde did little to ease the atmosphere.

* * *

 

Tom scuttled to the corner of the room, watching with impatient eyes as his father consorted with various personas of their faraway folk. His sisters were lined up at the pink-orange bed of corals, which served as a dais of some sort, while foreign merfolk all gravitated to them, eager to see for themselves the famed king's daughters. He should be there, he knew, but he had broken far too many rules to care about one little order.

He carefully scraped heavy, purple oysters from the back of his dark blue scales with his nails. His paternal grandmother had bestowed him six pearl oysters, all proudly displaying their gleaming treasure, to be worn on his tail—a sign of his nobility, for all the seas to see. He let some fishes careen the clams back to the open ocean, the loss of weight burdening his tail making him giddy. He let that giddiness froth only in his insides, though, because it just won't do for his father to notice his mood. He has other plans that absolutely needed his father as far away as him as possible. And a certain battleship he saw moored at the town, a hundred miles away.

"My dear boy, why aren't you dancing?" Startled, Tom looked up, unaware that he had made perfect circles in the water during his musings. The man in front of him was old—his hair was silver, instead of grey, and his scales were a rather gaudy reddish gold that positively revolted him. He looked like someone who had spent his youth sunning above the waves, near human towns, and now lived to show the perfect tan—an ostentatious contrast to Tom's alabaster complexion.

"With whom am I having the pleasure?" Tom asked, instantly switching to what his mother would've called "politic set" which includes perfectly pleasant, conversational tone, combined with affable—if a bit subservient—mask in place, and armed with dry wit, which usually pleases the more serious guests of his father's.

"Albus Dumbledore, my boy, surely you've heard of my introduction just now!"

Tom let his cheeks blushed a very faint, very complimenting pink. "I fear I have been too immersed in my own thoughts." He said, carefully deflecting the question.

The old man chuckled good naturedly, eyes a very light blue shining—no, the man's eyes are practically twinkling like mad. Unconsciously, Tom stepped back to give himself some distance from the man. He looked perfectly harmless—like another harebrained, shallow minded folk his father associated with, who had no idea of the grandeur of the world outside their cozy little circle. However, something in those sparkling blue eyes told many stories that Tom couldn't be bothered to translate just yet.

"Please excuse me," Tom murmured demurely, eyes downcast, the perfect picture of a submissive little son of the king. "I must go check up on my mother."

He allowed himself an inward pat at the back. Everyone knew he was devoted to his sick, frail mother. Added to his natural charm and charisma, he could practically get his way with near everyone in the palace. With the right words and the right gestures at the right times, he could charm the palace attendants into giving in their tongues.

"Don't let me hold you up, then, my dear," the old man said, all good mood and good-naturedly.

For a moment, Tom thought he saw a flash of calculating apprehension in those strange twinkling eyes, but it was gone so fast he wasn't sure if he imagined it. He gave a little nod, shoved the thought to the back of his mind, and glided away with a natural grace he knew made both his parents look like commoners. He couldn't shake the feeling of eyes drilling into his back, though, and for some reason he believed them to be a very light shade of blue. He dodged curious guests and ignored all attempts to catch his attention.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of evasive maneuvers—he couldn't very well sod those guests off, after all—he found his mother, a little ways away from the bustling festivities. She was laying on a bed of flowers, her dark, curly hair tangled in a mess of twigs and petals. She looked like she has always been there since the start of time.

"I wish you'd stop pretending to be asleep every time there's a ball, Mother," Tom sighed mock-wistfully. Merope abruptly sat up, wincing as her tangled hair pulled at her scalp. "Though I can't fault that it's useful for my escapades."

"And I wish you don't have to have so many escapades, but we can't all get our wishes," Merope replied, but there was no real bite in her voice. Tom fell silent. "I just wish you'd be less… enthusiastic about it, Son," Merope fiddled with her hair, untangling her head from the flowerbed. "Sometimes, I swear you spend half your time since you're of age above the waves."

"It's not like I can stay there," Tom answered. Merope's lips thinned into a straight, pale pink line. "… Or, can I?"

"Not by normal means, no," Merope admitted reluctantly, knowing there's no use of pretense of ignorance when her son was concerned. "There are some tales of our folk who… left the ocean for the dry land. Far-fetched legends of creating human body."

"But there has been someone who left," Tom stated. This could change his plans greatly, especially if he could switch between merman body and human body quickly. Imagining all the wonders and the knowledge he'd get to know, with access to both worlds, made his giddiness returns tenfold.

Merope didn't answer, but Tom could swear that his mother's eyes grew strangely blank—not the fatigued blankness he is already used to, but another kind of blank—as if she was distantly reminiscing something very, very sad. If merman could cry, he was sure his mother would be crying. As it is, she just sat there, the silence reigning between them, before she sighed.

"Yes. Some years ago… I've never realized how long it has been. Just… don't seek her means out, Tom," Merope's slate eyes begged him. "It… didn't end well." Tom swallowed. There goes his plan.

"What happened?"

"… Last time she returned to the seas, she drowned," Merope answered flatly.

Tom imagined drowning—like the ships he had seen, after the first one two years back, and the corpses that came to rest at the seabed. It was hard to imagine, when he has literally been living underwater…. He felt nauseous all of a sudden. "Can it be changed back?" He asked.

Merope's gaze cut straight through his mind. "No, as far as I knew. If it could, I'd…" she trailed off uncertainly.

Tom didn't really mind his mother not telling him some things—after all, not everything was relevant for him. The name of the mermaid who left, for example, was one. One's name doesn't change the facts that he needed. "Do I know her?" Tom asked carefully.

"… No. She left before you were born." Tom left it at that.

* * *

 

"Remove your hands from my scalp, cousin," Harry glared at Draco, who was attempting to apply some kind of cosmetics on his as of yet untamed hair. It looked a bit gooey for Harry's liking, though the perfume was pleasantly light and sweet, but he refused to have it on his head. The rope holding his wrists together to the chair was not helping the situation at all.

"Another five minutes, Prince," Draco returned absently, lathering Harry's hair with the waxy substance. "Your hair is the biggest tragedy a mirror could ever see."

"I'm sure the mirror has seen far more dreadful things," the tied-up prince retorted dryly, "like you, primping."

With a huff the blonde aristocrat ignored him. Finally, the intruding fingers left his scalp, and Harry wriggled his wrists uncomfortably. "You're blocking my bloodstream."

"I'm never one for bondage anyway," Draco retorted, unsheathing a knife from his belt and began to carefully razor through the haphazardly knotted together ropes. "Besides, if you'd just stay still…"

"If you'd just get your grubby hands off me…" Harry returned, swinging his freed hands with exaggerated motion, coincidentally slapping the taller blonde's shoulder. "Sod off, cousin."

"How plebeian," Draco commented, turning up his nose haughtily.

"Go away," Harry said, his mood lightened with his cousin's antics. "Go far, far away and bother Blaise."

"Why do you always send me away for Blaise?" Draco whined.

"Then go and find Ron and tell him to bring the… supplies… to the kitchens."

"Why do you always send me away?" Draco amended immediately.

Harry grew pensive, his shoulders slack.

"Nothing, Draco. I'll just go, then, since your capable hands have conquered my hair. Say hi for Aunt Narcissa for me, will you?"

"Harry you can't clam up like this," Draco stubbornly held on to Harry's black leather belt when the prince made to walk out of the room, dragging his feet across the carpet and knocking down a few vases in the process. "It's not healthy and you knew it!"

"I think it's up to me, Draco," Harry said quietly, stopping just outside his doors to smooth nonexistent wrinkles on his emerald cuffs. "But thank you for your concern."

* * *

 

The sea was calm, but all it did was unsettling Harry even more. He was seated inside the royal chariot, fashioned out of the lightest mixture of metal alloys, elaborately gilded with shapes of animals. He parted the blinds and silken curtains, feeling the soft green silk slide to the sides quietly, offering tiny smiles at the waving populace.

The port was a mass of bodies, all cloying together with their scents mixed; sweat, freshly baked breads, milk, even the salty tang of fishes. It was a refreshing break from the perfumed fabrics in the palace, but he's not sure if he could stomach it for more than a few hours. He fingered the white calla lily in his buttonhole, savoring the fleeting sweetness. Mentally he reviewed his plans.

Seven o'clock. The opening celebration. Cutting some kind of ribbon on the deck, shooting fireworks from starboard and port cannons. It felt like an overkill, but Harry hadn't had much time to think about it.

Seven-thirty, talk with nobles.

Eight o'clock, walk the 'commoners' walk' to meet and greet the people.

Eight thirty, he should already be in the dining hall, and officially starting the feast.

Nine o'clock, Draco will cover him while he goes to the kitchen. Ron will have untied the boat, with the supplies in it, and will lower the boat to the sea. He'll disappear behind the hull before any guest could see him… hopefully. He should be back on board the ship by ten, and his father won't know a thing. Ron will have distracted the aristocracy and commoner alike by shooting the most expensive, colorful, queerly gay pre-ordered Filibuster fireworks that could make even Fred and George salivate in envy.

He glanced past the irrationally humongous hind wheels, squinting at the glint of night-lights that sparkled off the silver-plated solid oak wood. He could make out the Malfoy family's chariot, only slightly less elaborate than the royal family's is, pulled by four pristine white stallion ornately decorated with Malfoy colors; silver and cornflower blue. They looked like something straight out of a children fairytale.

The crowd cheered, and Harry hurried to pull his face back inside, snapping the curtains shut and pulled the blinds closed. He already felt the dread creeping on him.

* * *

 

The crown prince went through the royal gala mechanically, the shadowed figure observed. He seemed to have an uncharacteristic awkwardness with crowds or limelight in general, although that is ridiculous; they're royalty. They can't avoid crowds.

Currently, the prince had just escaped another trivia conversation by the sheer coincidence of a blond Fleet Admiral politely interrupting the one-sided dialogue.

Notice the sarcasm; the man was the prince's second cousin by marriage. The other man looked a bit disappointed, but quickly became enthused with the Lord Malfoy. Interesting. Looks like even the Fleet Admiral was in for the prince's oh-so-secret plan… or was he? The Lord Malfoy was looking at the escaping prince with thinly veiled puzzled expression.

He slipped around the commoners (far easier than trying to slip in between the nobility) that crowded the deck stairs, eyes trained on the retreating back of the prince, clad in sheer dark Tosca over-robe. Even he had to admit the prince was handsome, though he showcased nonexistent sex appeal. He looked… boring. Like a good little heir to the kingdom. Well, not so good since he's planning an escapade from his own gala, but he digressed. It was almost a pity to waste such good genes on murder, but orders are orders… besides, he will be the start of a greater good.

The trigger to the change of this static world.

His actions on this ship will determine half the future of the world tomorrow… the realizations made his mission that much more exciting. His own heartbeat felt so loud in his chest, his blood pounding in his ears.

A few more minutes, and the prince will walk to the commoners.

He walked behind the thick third mast of the trireme, carefully arranging his recurve bow under his cloak with practiced ease. Eyes still on the prince, he calculated the distance as the heir walked, not quite hand-in-hand but in close proximity with one of his little friends, towards to "commoner" part of the ship. The nearing action sent the previous anxiousness and giddiness to him tenfold.

Even from afar, he could see the prince's delicate, rather petite structure. He was all soft angles and jutting bones, and the thought of those bones cracking, pretty face sinking with desperation, bloodied and broken, sent another kind of thrill through him. Unfortunately, his mission does not involve torture in the least; it'll be a quick, silent assassination.

He backed towards the upper cabins, covered in swathes of dark red silk from view. He needed enough cover; it won't do to have someone saw him aiming at their prince, after all.

The prince gestured something to his friend, and the other dark-haired boy (looked barely above fifteen summers of age) scampered off obediently. He noticed the prince fingering the hilt of a dagger, carefully hidden in the folds of his sleeves.

A sudden panic attack tore through him; he can't be revealed already. There was no other agents on board the ship; he'd cleared it with his higher-ups to have this solo mission solo for real. He knew it was foolish, but he thought he'd hardly need reinforcements to put an arrow through the princeling's heart.

Who could possibly…?

He relaxed again when the prince greeted the nearest couple to him cordially, fingers leaving the barely visible dagger. If he wasn't such a good assassin, he doubted he'd notice the subtly protruding black leather, among the prince's solid black tunic.

There was a small clearing surrounded by a congregation of small groups, and the prince walked, no, glided towards the small space of relief.

A perfect chance.

He envisioned his bow, and mentally aimed. He resisted smirking, though no one was around him. He could literally get a clear, clean sighting to the prince, when he does his little routine with the commoners, from his current spot. He'd never had an easier mission… then again, he's a prince. There are always certain risks, when dealing with the higher part of society. The unwanted ripples that came from dipping your finger in the small pool—it traveled to every single nook and corner, and there's always little somethings that collapses without intent.

Now, though, he will start the biggest wave in the sea.

Starting from the murder of the prince.

He parted his cloak, revealing the weapon specially designed for this mission. Pieces of dark, polished wood, collected under the inside of his cloak. With meticulous eyes, he began constructing the recurve bow, joining the miniscule joints. In five minutes, he had a perfectly curved bow with draw weight twice to a longbow, and practical weight a quarter of it. It enabled him to pierce whatever chainmail shirt or light plate mail the prince might be wearing under all his silk, unlike regular recurve bows or even crossbows.

After all, it simply won't do to get so many people suspicious. Collapsible recurve bows were the weapon to go.

And so he waited.

He waited, and waited.

And finally aimed.

With a melodious hum, the strings vibrated, the arrow flying straight and true, and he could already see the heavy arrowhead piercing the prince's heart, singing like a sweet tune. He collapsed the bow and it was back under his cloak before the arrow even arrived at the intended target-the vulnerable prince.


	5. Sole Sailor

_Leman: a sweetheart, of either gender; a mistress; a lover._

 

The gala was… terrific.

Personally, he didn’t see the importance—other than the petty celebration of his birthday—but if they wanted to flaunt their riches, talk business with him, well, who was he to deny?

_Oh, right_ , Harry thought sarcastically, as another unnamed (meaning he didn’t bother to try to remember the name) nobleman steered him towards a conversation about his fishing company, _I’m a prince._ The _prince_ Their _prince._

Normally, he hated pulling on his rank—it was shallow, selfish, not to mention completely undignified—if he couldn’t handle his people without reminding them that he’s their (future) sovereign, well, he’s not fit for it. There ought to be some other way to remind them kindly that he, too, has preferences; namely for peace and quiet.

Now, he’s a hair’s breadth away from gutting the next people who chatted up to him with his knife. Or dagger. He’s not picky about which one. The knife is lighter, thinner, allowing for better penetration. The dagger is sturdier, thicker, with double-bladed edges, and in retrospect more identifiable. Perhaps he’d stick with knives in the future… since the dagger had his name all over it.

Idly, he fingered the dagger hidden in the folds of his much-hated bell-shaped sleeves, and the knife slipped in his belt. Morbid as it was, the cold feel of steel gave him some comfort; it lent him the confidence and tranquility he usually possessed at the training grounds.

Professionally, as the man-or-boy-or-not-quite-man-or-boy of the party, it was… awesome. The food, at least. He was tempted to nick a slice of Mrs. Weasley’s scrumptious pumpkin pastry. That woman is indispensable.

He felt Blaise discreetly pull his arm, steering him carefully and cautiously to the commoners’ side of the ship. He was half-tempted to do an awesome forearm flip to topple the Zabini heir, but decided the political ramifications were not worth seeing Blaise’s shocked face. Rarely, if anything, astonished him nowadays, Harry always tried to turn a proverbial corner and surprise him out of his wits.

Speaking of surprises, he was surprised that Lucius Malfoy saved him from another inane conversation with unimportant businessman trying to lick his boots. Knowing the man who was practically (and legally) his uncle, though, he probably expected something in return. Like pulling in favors to install ballista in his battleship, or something equally ridiculous. They’re not even at war anymore. Haven’t been for the last few centuries.

“Watch your step,” Harry heard Blaise murmured quietly in his ear, not quite beside him, and not behind him; the position implying close relations, favor, and good terms. Combined with Blaise’s five-piece tunic tailored in complimentary colors to his, it alluded further to their apparent alliance. He watched disinterestedly as several nobles wrinkled their noses in distraught, catching the gesture for what it was.

Usually, Harry hated, no, loathed power plays. However, this night is a figurative night of bloodbath.

Just in case, though, he pulled Blaise down so the Zabini heir’s ear was right at his mouth.

“If I catch you including me in your plays, Zabini, it will be on your own head,” he whispered and chuckled, his breath a soft caress hiding the underlying threat.

“Then I’ll just not get caught,” Blaise replied with a grin, not the slightest bit affected by Harry’s rather malicious smirk. It was a side not many are privy to; the cunning, ruthless seed of a ruler in the prince. If Blaise wasn’t so used to the prince’s antics, he might’ve given himself a whiplash from the bipolarity.

“Good,” Harry all but purred, his smirk softening in pleasure. “Good to deal with you, Blaise.”

“Always,” Blaise returned, making a mock bow from his current position, his sweeping arm catching Harry’s and they walked, hand in hand, in seemingly good mood. In reality though, his brief banter with Blaise barely alleviated the iron in his belly.

And when he heard the sharp, resonate _twang_ , so familiar yet foreign at once, barely above the murmur of conversations on the ship, he knew it.

He pulled Blaise down beside him, sliding his darksteel dagger from his sleeves and unerringly caught the heavy, barbed arrowhead above his head, where his heart once was. The force of the impact jarred his wrist a little, but he swatted the arrow with a flick of the blade and flexed his wrists, switching the dagger with his lighter knife, absently scanning the deck. Another faint hum of bowstring, muted under the cries of nobles and commoners alike.

“HIT THE DECK!” He bellowed in the resulting chaos.

He really, really hated assassins. And galas. And his birthday in general.

He saw Lucius Malfoy ordering guards to search the ship, simultaneously securing Draco behind a cluster of guards that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere while the Fleet Admiral pulled a bayonet dangerously, face pale with fury. In other circumstances, the king… his father would have Lucius’ head for compromising his life in favor of his scion, but for the life of him he couldn’t fault the blonde aristocrat, not when he had to knock Blaise sideways, another arrow slicing through the air and sinking into an unlucky nobody who’d been standing behind him. The arrow tore right through the man’s flimsy silk tunic into his navel (which makes him two heads taller than Harry is, but he really, really should focus on that assassin, so he turned back and swept the deck with his eyes). Blood spurted, but he ignored it with minimum difficulty, already desensitized by the more… violent… spars he’d had with the knights of the court.

He felt strangely detached, every panicked sway of the masses like a slow-moving picture, and he could count Blaise’s rapidly thumping heart under his palm, like a countdown to New Year’s celebration. “GUARDS!” He called, eyes zeroing on the flutter of movement behind silk curtains hiding the captain’s cabin behind the third mast. “SEARCH THE DECK! INTRUDER AT SIX!”

Another swarm of guards flooded from downstairs, and Harry took minimal comfort from their numbers. The guards are big, bulky men fit for showcasing the kingdom’s finest bodybuilders, but not really guard material… for Harry. Personally, he’d have zero difficulty spotting one of his father’s men, dressed as they were with stuffy garish red and gold uniform, with matching white breeches. They looked like blinking neon purple elephant of a target range. Rather than brute strength they displayed, he’d rather have one of his father’s ex-secret ops officer. Intimidation factor is all well and good, but when it comes down to it, his pedigree does that sufficiently.

He sprinted across the deck, weaving between panicking bodies and flailing sheets of muslin and silk, hands firmly pulling Blaise along to duck behind a pile of crates stuffed into a corner, smelling of gunpowder. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see the latter half of the battleship; his vision was obstructed by the masts.

“Stay here,” he commanded, instantly silencing Blaise’s oncoming protest with a sharp squeeze on the wrist. “I have to check on the servants.” And Ron.

“You’re not doing this alone, they’re not targeting the servants!” Blaise protested, ignoring the steadily increasing pressure of his prince’s fingernails. He was sure they’d leave crescent marks tomorrow, but it was no more than a passing thought when Harry ripped his cravat (blatantly ignoring Blaise’s input) and tied Blaise’s wrists together before he could say anything else, so tight he felt the sharp burn of silk pressing against his vein.

“Do I have to tie your boots too?” Harry asked rhetorically, smirk firm in place though his eyes were hard, glittering like cold emeralds.

And really, no one could blame Blaise if the prince got away with everything he planned then, that night.

 

* * *

 

The wait was killing him.

Once, Harry had brought up the topic of the men the king had chosen to be the Royal Guard; a platoon of elite fighters, capable of handling multiple weapons from axes to bayonets, men of prime physical abilities. The prince hadn’t liked them, even then. They were, to quote him, a bunch of useless Neanderthals. Show-offs. And then the prince had called them twenty other colorful names that could have made sailors cry for their mothers.

Now, Blaise couldn’t help but feel that the prince, once again, is correct.

He couldn’t reach his timepiece; it was in the pocket inside his wine red over robes, and with his hands out of commission there was nothing he could do but lay limp like regurgitated fish, trying to be invisible. He didn’t know why he even tried; surely the target was the prince himself.

A prince who had gone AWOL.

He sighed, and watched as guards in striking red-and-white uniform methodically swept past him, conveniently not seeing the lump that was the Zabini heir.

“Guards!” He barked, doing his best to imitate his friend the prince’s sharp, concise tones. It worked wonders; the three currently nearest to him looked up so fast they had to have given themselves a whiplash, and Blaise kicked on of the crates in frustration. “Over here!”

Two of them; one a young man with nondescript sandy blond hair, another with dark corkscrews, stared at him in confusion. The last one however, a few years their elder, recognized him.

“Heir Zabini! What happened?”

“Untie me first,” Blaise spat out, wriggling his wrists to get his point across. The man with blond hair hastily complied, swiftly severing the silk with a knife. “Now, you are going to search the kitchens, and then the… wherever the servants are. If there is one Ronald Weasley, you are to ask him, discreetly, where is the prince.”

“What…”

“He’s gone,” Blaise answered flatly, his voice hiding the panic building in his stomach like boiling lead. “He said he’s going to check up on the servants, the bloody fool, so up you go and fast!”

“Thank you for the information, sir, and rest assured we will find the prince.”

“I don’t need your assurances,” Blaise snarked. “It’s your job to protect him! About time you do it!”

“Yes, of course,” the eldest guard nodded hastily, swiping at his comrades before the two youngsters could dig their graves further. Blaise watched them disappear into the command room, rubbing at his wrists to get his blood going again. His fingers were numb, even though it had only been a few minutes at most.

Lucky him that Harry would forget the Royal Guard; in his dismissal to their value as a protector (not that he’d ever admit to need protecting) he had dismissed their presence altogether.

Now, he had a Fleet Admiral to find.

 

* * *

 

The cat-and-mouse game between him and the Royal Guard (clearly discernible with their sparkly red uniform) was getting a bit old.

He imagined that for outsiders, he’d be the mouse—the prey, the hunted, the doomed. For him, though, it was only a matter of playing with your prey—except he had taken it up another level. Let them taste a bit blood. Lead them around on merry chase, always just a bit out of reach, taunting and teasing.

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as it sounds; he’d had the whole ship mapped down to the small broom cupboard squeezed between two boarding rooms. He’d even remembered the important parts; where the windows big enough for escape are, where the storage of gunpowder is, the laundry room (with spare navy uniforms), the booze cellar (and he checked his custom lighter, always ready under his belt), and the captain’s quarters (where important papers most likely are). So it stands to reason that he’d outrun the stupid guards because they were practically in foreign territory.

This ship is as good as his.

Now, if he could find a boat or two (for playing distraction)… and more importantly, find the prince.

He tells himself that as long as the prince is dead, at the end of the day, then his career—and his life—is secured. He dared not to think of what could happen when he had seen clearly the prince’s prowess in martial arts, or swordplay at the very least; he hadn’t known (or targeted, at any rate) anyone who could deflect his arrow as if they had expected him to fire at that precise moment. If it wasn’t his life on the line, too, he might’ve found it interesting. Challenging. He had had to rapidly assemble and disassemble his collapsible recurve bow before the swarm of guards flocked to him like bees.

Thank whatever deity up there for small mercies. If there were another agent on board, he’d have been killed on the spot for compromising the mission; as it was, he could still salvage this mission and turn it about to his favor.

But first, he had to find the prince.

He sprinted past a few doors, familiarizing himself with his current surroundings; it was never as easy as reading a map. He had the map down to a pat; navigating around the ship while avoiding capture from several dozen Royal Guard officers are another pain altogether, quite literally judging by the oncoming massive headache he could feel at the back of his head.

Spare boats should be near the deck, by the servants’ quarters, while the main evacuating device—a long, sturdy wooden vessel capable of ferrying twenty Royal Guard men (and thus quite a few more ordinary men)—is hang by the anchor.

It was going to be a long night.

He cut a corner, slipped inside a cabin full of barrels (ale, or rum, most likely, judging from the smell, rather like a sailors’ bar after hours) and tapped the barrels, one by one, until he found one sufficiently empty. He’ll just have to bear ale-smelling boots tonight.

If only he were as good as some of their best at this; he was more of one-hit-KO assassin. He wasn’t supposed to even have prolonged contact with anyone, and he’d been playing cat-and-mouse with the guards for a while. He might be holding the upper hand, but in a fight up front, he’ll definitely lose.

He wonders if the kingdom’s interrogation is better than the master’s slow execution.

When had things became this complicated?

 

* * *

 

The missing prince was having a swell time.

He doesn’t like assassins, true. They were rather obstinate bunch of shady characters, skilled, and at best annoying. The best among them could really give him a recurring headache (since he’d became proficient at quite a few martial arts, and installed heavy-duty locks on his windows and doors) if anyone bothered to send one. Most of them are rather like hit men; shoot/snap/stab/poison and run. If their plans are foiled the first time, most of them can’t even come up with a decent one for their own escape.

Well, he was going to give them an excellent plan.

He prayed that Draco and Blaise won’t kill him afterwards.

 

* * *

 

In the chaos of the chase, it was easy to miss a single boat setting out, the passenger obscured under the dark of the ship.

 

 


End file.
